Nothing But A Man
by fantasticarla
Summary: ONESHOT. Christine comes to a realization about her Angel of Music. Kindly review, please and thank you.


Dazed, she drifted out of the shadows. Her small frame, clad in a lacy white nightgown, shivered with fear, but her steps never faltered. The thunderous chords of the organ filled the air damp and thick with the frigid water from the lake. Naive, childlike curiosity quickened her breath and with widened eyes, she impatiently pushed back the rich, chocolate brown curls that cascaded down her back and peeked shyly around the corner, one small pale hand resting on the smooth wall. The music was still emanating from one brightly illuminated corner of the room, the music that both frightened and intrigued her. There were candles everywhere; their pungent scent invaded her nostrils and immediately made her eyes water. After adjusting to the smell, she smiled faintly, as she was reminded of the scent of the forest, smoky sweet and dark. It perfectly suited the somber, mysterious air of the cavernous abode she awoke in.

She continued to move slowly forward, her eager eyes drinking in the lavishly decorated living space before her. The depressingly morbid tones issuing from the organ seemed to manifest itself in the rich furnishings; deep, blood-red rugs laced with black and gold lined the clammy stone floors; a midnight-black velvet couch sat in front of a blazing fireplace; a rectangular table of red marble sat in front of it, on which hundreds of sheets of unfinished musical scores lay; gothic, dismal portraits of desolate landscapes or grim faces decorated the walls; mirrors filled the spaces the pictures did not, some covered by some kind of thick tapestry, some uncovered, revealing a frame of rich gold or bronze. Numerous candle stands stood throughout the room, each responsible for contributing to the eerie glow of the place.

Finishing her assessment of the room, she finally rested her eyes on the dark figure in the corner sitting at the organ: he appeared to be throwing his life force into the booming composition that loudly reverberated off the walls of his underground home. He rocked back and forth, his shoulder-length dark brown hair growing mussed as he shook his head, completely lost in the music. The song seemed endless; he had not stopped playing since she woke up. She stared in wonderment at this creature: his tall, skeletally thin, lithe form was unmistakably intimidating, despite his reclined position on the organ bench. He donned form-fitting black pants and a loose white ruffled shirt that split halfway down the front, exposing a chest the color of a winter's moon; being a resident of the underground, he was averse to the sun's darkening rays. She crept steadily closer, her footfalls completely muffled by the thick carpet and stentorian notes steadily flowing from the gigantic black organ.

Even closer she came, until she could feel the heat rolling from him in waves of anguish and rage, until she could see the sweat beads forming on his face. And what a truly remarkable face – the likes of which she had never seen. Long, angular features furrowed into concentration, the rugged lines whispering tales of hardships and suffering untold, yet the pale pallor of his smooth skin suggested an almost ethereal air; he was, quite unconventionally, remarkably handsome, but...

The mask. The white porcelain mask that glittered from the right side of his face, that sent chills down her spine as it enigmatically held fast to his skin; what could it possibly hide?

No sooner had she puzzled over the reason for this strange bodily adornment than he abruptly began to play a slow, haunting melody, inundated with a loneliness and longing to deep for her to understand; a wonderful, terrible obsession she could not begin to comprehend.

She immediately felt tears spring to her eyes, unexpected, and blinked them back as quickly as they came. Inexplicably nervous, she clutched her frilly skirt in her hands. Confusion flooded through her, and she stared at the broken man playing with a passion so heart wrenching; her eyes full of questions she was not sure she wanted answered. He did not seem to notice her presence; if he did, he chose to ignore it. But what she did next he could not ignore.

She took a few more steps forward, to her surprise; it was almost as if the music wielded a bizarre sort of power over her actions and emotions. She sighed softly, now standing right behind him, watching, in awe, as his deft, unnaturally long snow-white fingers flowed slowly and skillfully over the keys, producing a sound so melancholy, she become acutely aware of only one desire: _comfort him._

He did not flinch when her small, smooth hand touched his unmasked cheek; there was no pause in his playing. Involuntarily, he leaned into her warm palm, basking in the touch of another human without fear of rejection or revulsion; only the sweet, comforting knowledge that someone held a modicum of sympathy for him; a grotesque, dirty excuse for a man...

She marveled at his positive response to her tender touch; surely he was above simple human interaction such as this? The white gleam of the stubborn mask again caught her eye, and once more, that childlike curiously flooded her senses, blinding her to the fact that she was providing a desperate man with the attention he sought since the cursed day of his birth...

He played steadily on, his heart nearly bursting with yet unexpressed emotion. How could she begin to fathom the cold, lonely days and nights of longing, the agony of unrequited love, the waking nightmare that was his very existence? He sighed deeply, relishing the feel of her gentle caress, tempted to halt his mournful melody and cover her hand with his own...no, no; he must not. He must not bring an end to this brief, euphoric glimpse of heaven in his life of dark, solitary hell.

Intrigued, she continued to stare at the glaring white mask, wondering what her strange protector had to hide. Surely such a being as this did not have flaws…? Her hand itched at her side, and then slowly began to make its way toward his face.

He closed his eyes, blissfully thanking Providence for his sudden good fortune.

She touched the mask lightly: cold, as she expected. Her fingers crept to the edge...

He continued to play, oblivious.

She slid her fingers under the edge, guilt prickling at her chest. She squelched it quickly, confused and annoyed by its sudden presence.

He remained completely dumb to what was happening, lost in the unfamiliar feeling of warmth and contentment. A corner of his lip twitched into the mere idea of a genuine smile, a simple working of facial muscles he had not exercised since his early childhood, before he was able to...understand. Back when he was unaware; back when he did not understand that the shiny piece of glass Mommy forced him to look into depicted his reflection, not a picture of a horrific monster; back when the pain of self-loathing did not torment him mercilessly, as it did now. Save for this moment. This amazing moment, when his dream had finally become a reality; the very dream that reduced him to bitter, anguished tears when he awoke cold and alone. This was real. She was real.

After a brief moment of hesitation, she bit her bottom lip and ripped it off in one quick, smooth motion. She stared dumbly for a second in horror, her eyes widening and hand flying up to cover her mouth, which hung agape.

He gasped as he felt unexpected cool air hit the right side of his face, his fingers momentarily frozen on the keys. The sudden silence that hung in the air startled them both, and he felt his heart shatter with the realization that soon, she would, like all the others, scream and flee, treating him like a sub-human unworthy of love and sympathy. The years of hate and rejection culminated with the most painful rejection he was about to endure, and white hot rage bubbled up suddenly, stifling all remaining fluffy thoughts of comfort and contentment. Again, he was humiliated and exposed. Again, he would be the outcast. And this time, _she _would be the one to shun him. It was almost more than he could bear. But he could not let her see him weak. He slapped his right hand hard over his disfigurement, masochistically enjoying the hot sting of his palm on the grisly mass of scars, warts, and rotten, twisted flesh.

She stood there in paralyzed shock, her small form shaking in fear. Her lower lip trembled as she watched him whirl around to face her, one hand covering half of his face, the other gripping the edge of the bench. The left side of his face was contorted with fury, and his golden eyes blazed with a heartbreak so piercing, so strong; she felt it within herself. Her lips moved soundlessly as he slowly got up from the bench and advanced towards her; her feet stumbled clumsily as she tried to move backwards, hands flying blindly outwards, groping the heavy air for something, anything, to right herself. She found her staring, staring…not at the red veins pulsing in his neck, not at lip curled into an angry sneer, but into his eyes.

At that very moment, she became painfully aware of the truth about the man before her. This man, who had entranced her with his otherworldly voice and music. This man, who cultivated her meager talent until it blossomed into a gift that brought the country to its knees. This man, who calmed her with his comforting presence when she was plagued with nightmares and fears that paled in comparison to the ones she felt while standing in front of him. This man, who she once turned to for protection, who she never thought would lay an offending hand on her.

She recoiled and fell to the ground, silent tears streaking down her face as he began to hurl terrible insults and curses at her in his blind rage.

This man, who she believed to be the answer to her fevered prayers she whispered into the night as a young child. This man, who deceived her for years, fulfilling the foolish wishes of her immature heart. This man, who was just that - _a man_.

This was no angel.


End file.
